


The Feel-Good Drag

by alifeasvivid



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cigarettes, M/M, Smoking, Surprise Kissing, more like a sneak attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 03:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13114962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alifeasvivid/pseuds/alifeasvivid
Summary: Pseudo-historical, unresolved USUK; America gives up cigarettes long before England does. Turns out, he’s pretty addicted to something else entirely.





	The Feel-Good Drag

**Author's Note:**

> This is on tumblr too, (@alifeasvivid).
> 
> I’m playing fast and loose with how the Nation-tans age physically here. Also, the smoking age in the US was only raised to 18 in 1992, but this takes place in some unspecified decade before that, so I would ask that you just play along ;) P.S. Smoking is gross. Don’t ever start.
> 
> *title swiped from an Anberlin song and lyrical epithet courtesy Panic! at the Disco

_Your love’s a fucking drag, but I need it so bad…  
_

Someone in the United States government whose job it is to decide these things, the Surgeon General maybe, has decided that America's human body is “physically” around seventeen and therefore,  _not old enough_  to smoke anymore. Personally, America thinks it’s bullshit. They took alcohol away from him awhile ago, but they let him fight in the wars and said he was eighteen then on all his papers.

Whatever. A bunch of his doctors are saying it’s unhealthy now anyway.

Thirty-two days. It’s been thirty-two days since his last cigarette. England arrived with his boss and a few other representatives on day twenty-nine and America’s fingers haven’t stopped itching for the feel of smooth, dry paper between them since. That’s to say nothing of the taste or silky feel of smoke on his lips.

The air in the Oval Office is stuffy with everyone talking and with England giving him this weird, inscrutable look, so America makes a  _strategic retreat_  down the hall to a room that might have once been a parlor or something, judging from the furniture. America flings open the window and pokes his head out. That’s one nice thing about quitting–fresh air is all the nicer for it. Breathing deeply on the inhale and sighing audibly on the exhale, America pulls himself back in. His fingers still itch.

“Oi. Are we boring you in there or what, lad?”

America whirls around to see England standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. Something’s different about England lately. Sure, his suit is clean-cut and tailored to within an inch of its life as always, but America has definitely noticed a new, subtle, rough slur in the voice that he has heard almost all his life and if he’s not mistaken, there are multiple  _holes_  in England’s earlobes and cartilage, possibly one in his nose, like he was wearing rings in them, but took them out for the purpose of looking more professional.

The turn that their mutual cultural exchange has taken recently gives America enough of a clue as to what’s going on with his former guardian, but England doesn’t say anything and America doesn’t ask.

England strides half the distance to where America stands and then stops. “I asked you a question.”

With less space between them, America imagines what England looks like with those piercing holes full of metal. He swallows. “No, it’s not boring. I just needed some air. That’s all.”

England makes a non-committal grunt and steps the rest of the way toward America, leaning back against the wall next to the open window. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his inside breast pocket, a British brand America doesn’t recognize, he slides one out and places it between his lips. Next, he produces his shiny, silver Zippo and lights the cigarette. He closes his eyes and takes a deep drag, but unfortunately opens his eyes in time to see America lick his own lips. “Would you like one?” he asks with a slight smirk painting that husky slur.

“N-no. That’s okay. Thank you. I quit.” At that admission, England raises one of his prodigious eyebrows. “Er. I mean.”

“What for?” England says on an exhale of smoke, but it sounds like “Whot fer?”

America shoves his hands in his pockets. Like hell is he ever going to tell England the truth, that he’s been deemed  _too young_  to smoke by his own government. He’s already anxious enough for the other Nations to see him as an adult, especially England of all people. “Ah, you know. A bunch of my scientists and stuff are saying it’s not healthy.”

England snorts. “I suppose for them it might not be.” America knows “them” in this instance refers to humans. “I’ve inhaled more smoke than this every time someone got it in their head to burn London to the ground and lived to tell the tale.” He holds out the pack to America. “Here.”

“No thank you,” America says, holding up his hands.

He sees England’s eyes search his face and then break into a wide grin around another puff of smoke. “So it’s true then, is it?” he says knowingly, smugly. “That’s a shame. First, they won’t let you drink and now they won’t let you smoke. Though, it's probably for the best considering you’re still a welp.”

Damn it. And damn England for knowing exactly how to get under his skin. “Look, it’s not what you think, okay? I just didn’t want to do it anymore. I have to set a good example and–”

England takes another long pull from his cigarette, holds the smoke in his mouth, and then suddenly leans forward and smashes his lips against America’s.

America’s mouth opens in shock, which only gives England the chance to breathe smoke into it and make America sputter and cough like he hasn’t since he first started smoking ages ago. America’s eyes squeeze shut and tear up and he tells himself it’s only from the force of his hacking, but he knows better. Damn England. The cigarette might be British, but the tobacco was definitely his at one point, he can tell.

When America recovers, England is smiling enigmatically at him–politically correct as anything and vicious as hell. He stubs out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray and leaves the room without saying a word.

America waits half a second to make sure he's not coming back and then pulls the half-gone cigarette from the ashtray and winces even as he jams it between his pursed lips, but he doesn’t carry a lighter anymore so he just stands there, hopelessly frustrated.

Many years later, when someone tells him that nicotine is more addictive than heroin, he’s not sure if it’s scientifically true, but he sure as hell believes it.


End file.
